


Always

by addicted2hugh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, First Time, Friends to Lovers, John is a Mess, M/M, Mary Morstan Doesn't Exist, POV John Watson, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Sherlock is a Tease, So Many Canon References, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-16 19:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14171874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicted2hugh/pseuds/addicted2hugh
Summary: A study in Sherlock, or: The years it took John Watson to fall in love





	Always

He’s not going to take that pill. Is he? He can’t be that eager to play the game. Oh God, he _is_.

I aim and shoot before my brain catches up with what my hands are doing, and before Sherlock has time to do so much as turn around, I’ve already left the room to head outside.

My mind is racing, and my heart’s not far behind.

I’ve just shot somebody, and I feel _nothing_ but grim satisfaction and a calm clarity of mind I haven’t felt since the war. I’m not a cold-blooded killer; at least I’ve never wanted to see myself as one. But this was _good_.

What if we’re both crazy? He risks his life – I kill people and save it. It’s frightening, but I know I’d have done _anything_ to keep this man alive.

Later, when we walk away from the scene giggling like idiots, I realise that if he wants me to, I’ll do it again and again.

\---

"God! Do you ever wish you were  _normal_?"

My head snaps up when I overhear Anderson's outcry of frustration, and Lestrade looks at me quizzically. 

"Alright, John?"

We're studying case files, and he's completely absorbed in his work right now, not registering anything that’s going on around us. I, however, can't help but zone in on Sherlock, who's standing in front of the evidence board and gazing at pictures of the latest crime scene (a grisly double murder, possibly part of a series of eight), comparing them to older cases and looking for clues as to a connection. I don't know what he's said to upset Anderson, but if their interactions in the past are any indicator, it was a snide remark directed at the man's IQ, his questionable love life, or the Yard's investigating standards in general.

"Sorry, Greg," I say. "Got distracted for a moment."

I pretend to focus and listen, but my mind wanders. I watch Sherlock out of the corner of my eye, delighted that he doesn't even bat a lash, but just keeps on staring right ahead.

"Mmh, I don't know... do you?" he mutters, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek not to laugh.

Anderson looks affronted and grumbles something under his breath, but what did he expect? Sometimes I don't know if he's Sherlock's biggest secret admirer or the person who hates him the most. Well, after Donovan. Either way, they both don't understand him.

_“Do you ever wish you were normal?”_

Sherlock. Does he, though? Does he feel normal? Does he sometimes wish it was different?

_“Freak.”_

How often has he heard that by now? When did it start? Does it hurt him?

I know it hurts  _me_  when Donovan says it; it makes me want to grab her and shake her and tell her what a terrible person she is, and how Sherlock is worth a hundred of her.

He’s probably above it all.

_“He doesn't have »friends«.”_

Is he  _normal_? Does he  _have_  to be?

"John?" 

Lestrade is getting irritated. I shake my head to clear it and try to concentrate, sneaking a last quick look at Sherlock. As if sensing my eyes on him, he looks up and gives me the briefest of smirks, the one that is all mine, and I grin back, feeling warmth spread through my chest.

He's wearing his black suit and the purple shirt I always make fun of because it's just  _that_  little bit too tight, and he looks untouchable. He's amazing, and he knows it.

God, I  _hope_  he does.

\---

"Sex doesn't alarm me."

"How would you know?"

I stare at Mycroft, because I can't believe he's just said that. How can he embarrass his brother like that in front of a stranger? Even if it was only me, even if I'm a friend, and even if it isn't true, this is something you just don't do.

Sherlock looks into space, his usual mask of indifference sliding sideways off his face for the fraction of a second, but then directs his gaze at his brother. 

His expression is as stern as ever, but his eyes look...  _pained_ **.**

 _What if it_ is _true?_

I stop listening to their bickering, because what I've just seen has shown me a facet of my friend I have never considered before. He's a young man, an attractive one at that, so yes, there  _must_  have been something in his past; he must have made  _some_  experiences.

Or…?

Is Mycroft right and he's still a virgin?

I think about him sitting there wrapped in his sheet, pantless, right on this very sofa, and how we laughed about Mycroft, the queen. About how he tried to walk away and almost flashed his bottom at a member of the royal staff, the white fabric slip-sliding off his long, lean back and stopping just in time... 

I stop myself from imagining the things that stayed hidden underneath the sheet when he pulled it up and around himself again, because it feels uncomfortable and forbidden to do so, and because I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate it to be mentally undressed by his flatmate.

I'm not into men’s bodies, anyway.

…

Why do I find  _his_  body so interesting?

Okay John,  _focus_. What about this dominatrix?

I try to get back into the conversation, but it's difficult to forget Mycroft's words and Sherlock's eyes.

_Are you a virgin, Sherlock?_

_Why does it even_ matter _to me?_

\---

“ _Ahh._ ”

I fucking _hate_ his text alert. It makes me want to go and punch a wall, punch his stupid phone, punch his stupid _face_.

 _Fifty-seven_ fucking messages.

I don’t even know why it angers me so.

 _Merry_ Christmas, Sherlock.

\---

"Mrs Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall."

He puts his arm around our shaken, but smiling landlady and pulls her against his hip.

I look at the two of them, still somewhat riding on the adrenaline high provided by our American friends' surprise visit and Sherlock's creative way of dealing with it, and ask myself how he picks the people he touches like that, because there definitely aren't many who enjoy this privilege. 

He touches  _me_  all the time, my arms, my shoulders, my hands, and sometimes even my  _head_ , cupping it in his palms to get me to listen to him, and it feels as if he's completely oblivious to boundaries when it comes to my personal space.

Do I mind?

I don't.

Is it irritating me?

 _God_  yes.

He touches Mrs Hudson like a son would touch his mother, often in a protective, always in a gentle way, and his eyes are exceptionally warm when he looks at or talks to her.

But I know there are not many others he gets this close to or who he allows to get this close to him, and I wonder if he misses it sometimes.

The  _human touch_  - it's not a cliché. If you've been in the army, you know what it feels like to yearn for a hug, some warmth, some solid body next to yours to provide a little calm and safety.

Or a quick shag.

Does he even  _need_  that?

If he's somewhere on the autistic spectrum, which would be one explanation for his superhuman ability to use his brain as a weapon, his very selective areas of expertise, and the not always very diplomatic way he treats people, he might not even feel the desire to interact with anybody physically.

He grins at me and bites into his slice of cake again, still holding Mrs Hudson close. His left eyebrow twitches upwards as he chews, his eyes never leaving mine, and my mouth goes a little bit dry. 

_Is he flirting?_

No, I'm going insane.

This case is just too much for me. 

Naked women on the settee, whips and handcuffs, and pictures that could cost the Royals their reputation. 

_Sherlock in a sheet._

It’s too much.

\--- 

He's lying on the sofa, asleep or resting, an open magazine lying face-down on his chest and one arm flung over his head in that carelessly flamboyant way only he knows how to pull off convincingly.

In a pair of striped pyjama bottoms, a pale green t-shirt and his beloved navy dressing gown he looks young and serene, and not like his immaculately groomed high-functioning self at all. His hair is mussed and falling across his forehead and temples in tousled curls, and the hard, controlled expression normally edging his mouth has softened, almost disappeared.

I watch him for a while, trying not to make a sound and disturb him, because he needs to let go once in a while - everybody does. He’s been exhausted after the Adler case and our wild chase of monster dogs, not to mention the incident with the harpoon, whatever that was about (I don’t really want to know), and I’m glad he’s finally able to relax. More often than not, closing a case leaves him restless and bored, and then it’s either drugs or shooting walls to take his mind off the ever-whirring wheels in his head, which are a blessing to the world when in use, but a curse to him whenever they’re idling.

Now he’s lying there peacefully, his usual demons driven from his brain, at least for a while.

His middle is rising and falling softly with the steady breaths he takes.

_He looks beautiful._

Where did that come from?

I wonder whether I've finally let it get to me, all the remarks about me being his date, us being a couple, and  _is mine a snorer?_

Does all that cause me to see him in this new light now or has it kept me from seeing him like this all this time?

_Okay, John… experiment._

I consciously make myself look at his body, just to see what it will do to me, letting my eyes wander from his feet ( _naked, slender, so pale_ ) over his legs and groin ( _okay, calm down, these are just thigh muscles underneath soft fabric, and this is just the hint of a slight bulge curving down between his legs; he's a man; he's got a penis; it’s no big deal_ ) and then up to his chest ( _covered by his magazine, not much too see here_ ) and his throat ( _a_ lot _to see here, a lot of throat, of neck, of perfect lines and angles holding up his brilliant head_ ), and last of all his face, his strong jaw, his ridiculous cheekbones, his closed ey---

His eyes are not closed, most  _definitely_  not, but open – open and looking at me from under heavy, sleepy lids.

_Ah. Oh._

I clear my throat and rub my neck, and God  _damn_  it, if he hasn’t deduced what I’ve been doing by now, I’ll eat his ugly hat.

He doesn’t say a single word, but just keeps on staring at me. His lids might be sleepy, but his gaze is not, oh,  _far_  from it. It’s brilliant and piercing and blue-green-yellow- _something_ , and how do you even  _get_  eyes this colour?

He smiles.

I flee, mumbling something about tea.

\---

We do not talk about it.

A week passes and it’s just the usual, following him around on cases, watching him conduct his experiments, and trying to ignore the various body parts littering the fridge when getting milk for our tea.

We live and work normally (as normally as it gets with Sherlock) and he never lets on that what I did that afternoon was out of the ordinary or any reason for alarm on his side.

_Thank God._

I try to push the memory of it to the back of my mind, because it  _does_  alarm  _me_ , and not only a little.

I collect notes for a new blog entry, but find myself experiencing difficulties to describe him to the readers. This has never been a problem before, but now my detached, but still admiring point of view has shifted, away from the detached and more and more towards the admiring, and it freaks me out.

People don’t need to know about what he looks like in the middle of a deduction, all intense eyes and erratic gestures, flushing a very becoming shade of pink on the top of his cheekbones, and they surely don’t want to read about how beautifully _human_ he sounds after a good old chase through the dingy back alleys of this city, panting and giggling with excitement, leaning against the wall of our staircase to catch his breath, and they definitely won’t hear anything about his gloved hand being wrapped around mine while we watch the bad guys out of a dark corner, pressed against each other and trying not to breathe too loudly, me waiting for the gentle squeeze of his fingers to indicate that now’s the time to strike.

Typing and deleting and staring at blank pages for hours on end, I slowly realise I’m getting obsessed with him, and whatever it means, I know it’s probably not healthy.

I need to get my mind off him for a while, to figure it all out.

\---

My date was a disaster.

She was pretty and funny and tough, just the way I like them, but my heart wasn’t into it. Well, my  _heart_  almost never is, but my mind wasn’t, either, and not even my cock, which is something that’s never happened before.

Even if it’s just a one-night-stand and  _especially_  if both parties are aware of that right from the beginning, sex is a brilliant way to let off some steam. I love sex.

But it didn’t happen.

Now I’m in my bed, and Sherlock isn’t home, and I wonder where he is and hope he took a gun, just in case, and then I think about what he _looks_ like holding a gun, pointing it at someone with that steely look in his eyes, and I get hard so fast that it makes me feel dizzy.

Now  _that_  is something entirely new.

I lick my lips and look around in the dark, as if checking for any trespassing eyes, but of course there’s no one here to see me. My breathing’s already accelerating, and there’s no way this is going to go away on its own.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

I wriggle out of my boxers underneath the covers, somehow not ready to expose myself fully to my own four walls, and sigh at the feeling of my erection springing free to rest on my lower abdomen. The underside of my cock rubs against the cool, slightly worn fabric of the duvet and I allow myself to imagine that it’s  _his_  smooth palm touching me, rubbing lightly, the first soft touch of a new lover, hesitant and slow.

Oh  _God_.

My hips twitch upwards, trying to get more friction, and I take myself in hand, wrapping my fingers tightly around my hard flesh to squeeze and stroke the way I love it, and in my fantasy he guesses exactly what I want and finds my perfect rhythm right away.

I move my hand up and down, not too fast, spreading drops of precome around the head, teasing myself with flicks of my thumb, and suddenly it’s really _him_ doing it to me, _Sherlock_ , my mind’s eye picturing him as clearly as if it was real, and I spread my legs a little wider and give myself over to it.

He wanks me expertly, all the shyness from before forgotten, and I throw my head back against the pillow and moan lowly, my heart pounding against my ribs.

“ _Yes_ , John, so good,” he whispers in my ear, and I shiver when his warm breath hits my skin, and then his tongue sneaks out to lick my neck.

“ _Ah_ ,” I hiss and he chuckles lowly.

His deep voice is like velvet, dark and smooth and touching me as if it was a corporeal thing, slipping into my head and turning my world upside down.

He’s still fully dressed, which arouses me so much; it’s the purple shirt again, the buttons straining against his chest as he moves his arm a little faster.

“I want to see you come, John,” he breathes, and it sounds gentle and loving and amazed, as if I was the most fascinating thing in the universe to him. “Let me see it, come on… You’re gorgeous, John, so  _beautiful_ , come for me,  _please_ …”

“Oh God,  _Sherlock_ \---” I pant, and he twists his wrist just right, and I’m there.

“ _Ngh!_ ”

I bite the pillow to keep myself from screaming and come all over my hand and the bed, making a terrible mess of it, but I don’t care. It feels so good. It hasn’t felt like that for ages, be it on my own or with a partner.

I lie in the dark, trying to breathe normally, but failing. There’s a lump in my throat that I can’t swallow down.

Oh fuck.

I think I’m falling in love.

Oh fuck, fuck,  _fuck_.  

\---

When he gets home, he finds me sitting on the sofa in a fresh pair of pyjamas, having a pint and watching re-runs of QI on the telly.

I just couldn’t sleep.

Normally you would expect to drift right off after the most mind-blowing orgasm, but no, the realisation that my insane  _male_  flatmate is obviously my newest object of desire made me so nervous that sleep was out of the question. I don’t know what confuses me more – the fact that he’s a man, or that he’s my best and only friend, or that he’s the most difficult person in the world.

“Is she still here?” he asks and flops down beside me, and for a second I wonder what the hell he’s talking about.

Then I remember.

“No, we… didn’t end up going home together after all.”

He frowns.

“Really?”

“Yes! We didn’t click. It happens, Sherlock.”

“Alright.”

He sounds incredulous, and I grab the remote to put Stephen Fry on mute and look at him.

“Is everything okay, Sherlock? You’re being weird.”

He shrugs.

“You’ve recently had a satisfying sexual encounter – a  _very_  satisfying one by the looks of it. Now you tell me that you didn’t have sex tonight, which either means that you’re lying or that I’m wrong, and both outcomes would irritate me immensely.”

I take a slow sip of my beer and swallow to buy some time.

“Sherlock… You don’t necessarily need another person to… satisfy yourself.”

I close my eyes for a moment. This is  _not_  going well.  _Oh God._

“You mean you masturbated?”

“Sherlock!”

I have to laugh, mostly for lack of a better reaction, but also because it’s extremely surreal and yes,  _funny_  to have this conversation with him.

He purses his lips.

“If you masturbated, you must have done something differently. You do not look like this after masturbating. What did you do differently?”

_What?_

“ _Sherlock!_ ” I blurt out, my amusement turning into annoyance. “Are you saying you’ve analysed my… my most private habits all this time? How long have you been doing that without me knowing it? Don’t you think that this goes a bit too far?”

He flinches and I immediately feel sorry for raising my voice, but still, he  _can’t_  do that.

“I wanted to know everything about you, so I filed it all away,” he says quietly. “You’re occupying a whole room in my mind palace, because you’re important. I’m sorry if that upsets you.”

He said sorry. He said I’m important. He looks like a boy who knows he did wrong, but doesn’t really understand why.

I sigh, my anger evaporating as fast as it appeared.

“It’s okay. I’m sorry for being loud. I know you didn’t mean any harm.”

I know he didn’t. He’s just collecting facts. He’s not like other people. _Let him be._

“I can delete it if you like.”

He folds his hands in his lap, his gaze fixed on me, and suddenly I feel a little drunk. My beer isn’t even half empty, but I’m aware of the fact that alcohol is not the reason for this lightheadedness, this mild nausea, this thumping heart that’s threatening to jump out of my throat.

“No,” I hear myself say. “It’s alright.”

He averts his eyes and looks at the floor instead.

“What did you do differently?” he asks again, because he  _needs_  to know – it would drive him crazy not to know.

I look away too.

It’s just Sherlock. He’ll find out anyway. And I’m tired.

“I thought about you,” I say.

The world stops---

After what feels like several eons, he puts his hand on my arm. I turn towards him with a start and find him staring at me out of ample eyes, his expression unlike anything I’ve ever seen on his face.

“I don’t understand, John,” he says, his voice shaking a little (another unprecedented event). “You have to help me, because I… I don’t understand.”

I can see that this is indeed the case. It looks like my revelation somehow broke his brain, like he needs to reboot, and he doesn’t like not understanding things _at all_ – I know that the truth is the only thing I can give him to make it better.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

_I can't lie to him._

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

I’ve never spelt it out like this for anyone before, but then again, I’ve never  _felt_  like this before, either.

His lips press together and his face twists into a half-frown that completely obscures what's going on in his head, and I'm lost.

"I... I'm really sorry, Sherlock... I probably shouldn't have told you. It's okay; I understand. It doesn't have to change anything between us. I'll deal with it. I'll get over it."

He shakes his head.

"John. But it  _does._ " It's barely a whisper. "It changes  _everything_."

\---

He tells me that he thinks that Moriarty is back, that he knows he’ll try to hurt me to hurt _him_ , and that I’d be in mortal danger if Moriarty found out that we’re more---

He doesn’t finish the sentence, and I don’t know how to reply, so I don’t say anything.

He jumps up and starts to pace the living-room, sometimes silently, sometimes hiding his face in his hands and muttering to himself, and it’s worse than in the pub on Dartmoor, him losing it like that, because now I’m not merely irritated or annoyed, but _scared_. I’m scared shitless.

He tells me he’s taken precautions, but that now everything’s different, but when I ask him to give me more details, to help _me_ understand, he refuses.

“I can’t lose you,” he only says, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

This is going so much worse than I could have ever imagined.

“Please, Sherlock,” I say, feeling tears prickle in the corners of my eyes. “I don’t get what’s happening. Please tell me.”

He strides over to the sofa and kneels down in front of me. His hands come to rest on my thighs, burning my skin through the thin fabric of my pyjamas.

“I need to think,” he says, his tone a bit calmer than before. “I can’t--- I need to think, John. I’m sorry.”

With that, he gets up and leaves the room. A few seconds later, I hear his bedroom door open and close.

Silence.

I reach for my beer and down it in one go, switching the telly off with my other hand.

My stomach churns, immediately letting me know that this was a bad idea, and I have to run to the bathroom to be sick.

Afterwards, I stare at myself in the mirror, my shaking hands gripping the edge of the sink. I look like a ghost, and my heart feels hollow. There’s a solid black mass inside of me, as heavy as lead, taking up the space that the slow, sweet burn of my budding love for him used to occupy before.

It was better before I told him.

I brush my teeth and go to bed.

I don’t know why I hoped that this would end differently.

\---

I wake up in the middle of the night because somebody’s in my room, and my hand is halfway to the bedside table to retrieve my gun when I realise it’s Sherlock.

He’s standing beside my bed, his tall silhouette clearly visible in the light of the street lamps shining through the window.

“Sherlock,” I whisper, panting a little and trying to get my heart rate back under control. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer, but just lies down next to me on top of the covers.

I freeze.

_What?_

“John.” He seems to be slightly out of breath, too. “I’m sorry about earlier. I’m terrible at feelings… Forgive me. I--- I’ve known that something’s been… _growing_ between us for a while now. I like it.”

That’s nice to know. But he isn’t finished yet.

“Can I kiss you, John?”

I’m glad that it’s dark, because I don’t want him to see my flabbergasted face. I roll over without saying a word, making more room.

If this is a dream, it’s not like all my other sex dreams. Nothing’s happening smoothly here; it’s clumsy and awkward and we have to wrestle with the duvet to get closer to each other, close enough for our mouths to meet.

Then we kiss, and it’s like nothing my fantasies could have prepared me for; it’s so much stronger and better, so I moan into his mouth to vent my delight and he mirrors the sound with one of his own, and I know that _this is it_.

I thought I was falling in love with him before, but I’m now aware that it’s already developed into something much more fundamental, and that all I had to do was to acknowledge the feeling for what it’s been all along, maybe ever since I first laid eyes on him on that momentous day that brought me back to my senses after I’d left my will to live to shrivel in the desert sun of Afghanistan.

I grapple for a hold on his clothes because I want them gone, and together we rid ourselves and each other of our pyjamas, stealing more kisses in between, giggling through groans of pleasure when skin touches skin for the first time and elbows bump into ribs.

What we lack in finesse, we make up for with determination.

I still don’t know whether he’s done this before, but it turns out that it doesn’t matter, because it’s _us_ , it’s new, and that’s what counts. We’re learning about each other by trial and error, and I could never compare this to other sexual encounters – it’s _Sherlock_ , which makes it unique and perfect.

He likes to kiss for minutes at a time, nipping at my lips, sucking them into his mouth, exploring me with his tongue until I’m writhing with impatience to take it further.

I like to let my hands roam up and down his long body, from his throat down to his calves, registering each and every shiver and twitch and lingering at the places where he seems to enjoy being caressed most (his thighs, his hips, his neck).

He sounds divine when he allows himself a full-on moan, but I love the little sounds as well, the ones he tries to hold back, but which make their way out between his lips as short, breathy groans that make me want to do unspeakable things to him.

I lightly rub the underside of his cock with my index finger, marvelling at his silky skin and the hardness underneath, and then I take his balls into my hand and squeeze them gently, which makes him arch his back and slap the mattress with his palms. He’s breathing through his nose, loudly and very fast, and I want to make him come undone.

He whimpers when I take him into my mouth, and I expect to be appalled by the taste of another man on my tongue, but he’s delicious and this is _wonderful_ , and I decide that going down on him might become my favourite pastime as of now.

I want to make him come and swallow it all, but he pulls me up to him after a while to kiss me and turn us around so that he is on top, and I allow him to manhandle me into the position he wants, waiting for whatever it is that he intends to do.

He wants to return the favour, which is perfectly fine with me.

His slick mouth is searing hot around me, his tongue pulling at the head of my cock, and I reach down to hold his head and ruffle his curls, just to feel that this is _him_ doing it to me.

_Oh God, he’s amazing._

After a few minutes it becomes too much, so I gently tug at his hair to get him to stop.

He raises his head and I sense his gaze being directed at my face. It’s too dark for me to make out the look in his eyes, but it’s probably a questioning one.

“I don’t want to finish already,” I rasp, cupping his cheeks in my palms. “You’re too good, Sherlock…”

He huffs and moves up to lie beside me again.

“Beginner’s luck,” he mutters, and there it is, the answer to the question I’ve stopped asking myself because I don’t really care anymore.

All the same, it might be of significance for _him_ to let me know, so I kiss him slowly and deeply and run my hand down his back.

“For me too,” I whisper against his lips. “You’re the first man… the only one.”

A long shudder runs through him in response and he pulls me on top of himself, opening his legs so I can fit between them.

“Show me,” he breathes. “Please…”

At his trusting plea, I feel the animal awaken inside of me, but I try to rein it in. Right now there’s nothing I want more than to take him, make him mine, put my cock inside him and fuck him until he screams my name in the throes of his climax, but this is not what tonight is going to be like. It’s his first time.

“Slowly,” I say and align my erection with his to thrust against him, my movements made easy by sweat, precome and our combined saliva.

“ _Hnghh_ ,” he grunts and wraps his arms around me, his fingers digging into my shoulder blades for support.

“Yeah,” I whisper and do it again. “Hold onto me… I’ve got you…”

I roll my hips, finding a rhythm he enjoys by listening to his soft sounds of pleasure and adjusting the pressure and speed of my thrusts when something seems to feel exceptionally good, and soon he starts to move as well, to push his body up and against me, his heels digging into the bed for leverage and his fingers clenching and unclenching in my back.

We keep it up for a while, and then his grip on me becomes painful and his legs go tense.

“John,” he pants. “ _John._ ”

His cock pulses next to mine. He’s close.

“ _Yes_ ,” I moan against his cheek, my lips salty with his sweat. “You can come, Sherlock, let it happen… oh _God_ , you’re so--- so beautiful, so _lovely_ … Come for me, come on…”

“ _John_ ,” he gasps again and starts to shake from head to toe, coming in long waves and spurting his hot release into the tight space between our bodies.

The rhythm of his movements falters, but I keep on thrusting, going faster now, _so_ close to the edge myself.

“Oh God,” I hear myself pant. “Oh God, oh _Sherlock_ , I love you. Oh _God!_ ”

Even through the haze of my orgasm, I’m almost ashamed of the loud groan I emit when it happens, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

He holds me tight and sobs against my ear, repeating my name over and over again.

\---

We never get around to taking our physical relationship any further, because a few days later, my world stops turning in its tracks.

\---

For two years, the only thing that keeps me alive is the memory of his words, spoken in the sex-damp air of my bedroom, his forehead pressed against mine and his hands in my hair.

“Whatever happens, I will always come back for you. _Always_. Trust me. You have to trust me. _Always_ , John.”

He told me everything in the end.

I know he can’t contact me – it would be too dangerous for both of us. Not knowing where he is drives me insane.

Clearing his name becomes my new obsession, something to keep me occupied at night when I cannot sleep and something to take my mind off missing him during the long, lonely days.

Mrs Hudson thinks he’s dead and makes me tea and cries when she thinks I can’t see.

I visit his grave regularly, and if anybody’s watching, they will think my tears are tears of grief and not tears of longing and heartache. Reading his name engraved in the black stone gives me a strange sense of hope and the strength to hold on, because I know he had to do it to save all of us.

_“Trust me. Always, John.”_

\---

When he comes back one rainy evening, he looks older, and thinner, and so, so tired. I fall to my knees when he enters the flat – I’ve imagined it _so many_ times, what he would look like, what I would say, and how wonderful this reunion would be, but the real thing is much messier and a lot more painful.

He half-carries me to the sofa and sits down with me, holding me in his arms as my body is wrecked by sobs I cannot hold inside, and I’m so loud that Mrs Hudson comes upstairs to check on me.

“John?”

I look up. She sees him, and her hand flies up to her mouth. She freezes in place, her eyes filling with tears, and he holds out one arm and beckons her to join us, which she does after a brief moment of hesitation. He holds her close and kisses her cheek, and then he pulls my face up to his and kisses me on the lips, which makes Mrs Hudson cry even more.

“Boys,” she chokes out. “ _Boys_.”

Sherlock is back.

We stay there on the sofa for an hour or so, and then Mrs Hudson gets up and makes tea and we drink it together, the two of us taking turns to hold on to Sherlock’s arms, just to make sure that he’s really there, which makes it difficult for him to keep his cup steady, but he doesn’t complain.

We don’t talk. I don’t ask. There’s so much to say that I don’t know where to start, and when Mrs Hudson leaves to let us “say hello properly”, I willingly follow him as he leads me to his bedroom, and soon we’re naked and on the bed, and I see his back and have to cry again.

“Who did that?” I ask, looking at his gaunt face through a veil of tears.

He shakes his head and strokes his fingers down my neck. They are rough and more calloused than I remember them. What happened to his smooth hands? What happened to my beautiful man?

“That’s of no importance, because they’re all dead now.”

If they weren’t, I’d find them and kill them, _slowly_ , one by one.

He’s protected me for long enough. Now it’s my turn again.  

“I know,” he says lowly.

He’s read my mind.

“John. Can I kiss you?” he then asks, stirring up memories of a night more than two years ago, and I wipe my face with the back of my hand and close my eyes.

\---

We make love all night, sleeping in each other’s arms for a few hours in between, but always waking up again to go for another round – slow, then fast, completely without words, and then again with a thousand lover’s oaths spilling from our mouths.

We’re making up for lost time.

When the first faint glow of the new day dawns on the horizon, I watch him rest, curled up against my side, and I know that whatever happens, I’ll never let him go again. I’ll keep him here right next to me.

Always.


End file.
